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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29822817">Stray Italian Greyhound</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/akuli/pseuds/akuli'>akuli</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>anthems of the dream smp [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Related, Implied/Referenced Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:08:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29822817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/akuli/pseuds/akuli</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“ Oh, come on now,” He’s doing that thing, where he makes it sound like he doesn't have a sliver of emotion, “ are we really gonna do this?”</p><p>“ Yes,” The sound of tissue paper tearing is nothing compared to how Connor rises to his full height, shoulders set in a line, “ because last time I checked, this is my party, and you’re dead.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>No Romantic Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>anthems of the dream smp [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192328</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Stray Italian Greyhound</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/miserybug/gifts">miserybug</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is a songfic. stay with me.</p><p>first and foremost, mis, i hope you like this. i’m sorry it’s so short, i promise your boy will have a bigger role in future works. for now this is what i offer to you.</p><p>this is a songfic in the sense that i haven’t been able to get this song out of my head as theirs since i heard it. so i wrote something based on it and threw in some of the lyrics that hit the hardest. that’s all i can really say about that</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <strong>Oh no, not now</strong>
</p><p><br/>
<strong>Please not now</strong>
</p><p><br/>
<strong>I've just settled into the glass half empty made myself at home<br/>
<br/>
</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The party goes well, all things considered. There’s someone who he doesn’t quite know who sits in a boat the entire time, (which results in an annoying half an hour of turning it sideways with what little physical strength he holds) Ranboo, who is quiet, always quiet, Tommy, who is sometimes far too much, Antfrost, who’s got an unsettling feral look in his eyes the entire time, and Punz.</p><p>(Charlie is there too. It’s his first day on the server, and he’s curious, and the frames of his glasses are cartoonishly big, but Connor takes his hand all the same, and welcomes him home.)</p><p>He’s cleaning up, the few bottles the actual adults attending drank tossed haphazardly aside, when the room goes cold. He shivers, even with his onesie, but that’s not what makes him freeze where he stands, crouching, with half-empty bottles clutched to his chest. What makes him go completely, utterly still, is a voice he never wanted to hear again, (not like this, at least) “ Is this the part where I wish you Happy Birthday?”</p><p>Deep breath in. “ If you’re going to be like Ghostbur,” He says, clutching what his guests left to his chest slowly, as to not show any sign of weakness, “ you can leave.”</p><p>“ Oh, come on now,” He’s doing that thing, where he makes it sound like he doesn't have a sliver of emotion, “ are we really gonna do this?”</p><p>“ Yes,” The sound of tissue paper tearing is nothing compared to how Connor rises to his full height, shoulders set in a line, “ because last time I checked, this is my party, and you’re dead.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<strong>But you had to come along didn't you</strong><br/>
<strong>Tear down the doors</strong><br/>
<strong>Throw open windows</strong><br/>
<strong>Oh, if you knew just what a fool you have made me</strong><br/>
<strong>So what do I do with this?</strong>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“ It wasn’t pretty,” Schlatt says, and Connor didn’t miss this, the way he always sounded as if talking to even his self-proclaimed <em> friends </em> was a chore,  “ you should be glad you didn’t have to see it.”</p><p>Something cuts him right in half, easily, in a way he’d dismiss as Schlatt’s tendency to not think before he speaks, at a time where he was willing to do anything to see his best friend smile, even if it turned sour not even a second afterwards. Now, he laughs bitterly, and Schlatt looks at him, finally, just when he purposely looks away, out of the ruined glass, to the Prime path, “ I don’t know why I expected you to change.”</p><p>There’s a certain vengeful thrill he gets from the way Schlatt visibly stiffens despite his incorporeal form, “ Low blow, Conman.”</p><p>“ Don’t call me that,” He snarls, and Schlatt, or whatever this figment of someone who used to be his best friend, flickers like static, “ you wanna know why I hate you? Because you’re dead,” Connor’s voice is breaking every few words, but he’s so <em> fucking </em>tired of this shit, of pretending Schlatt and the Ghost that isn’t Wilbur at all talking about whatever they please without taking into consideration that the living have not been allowed to grieve, “ because you’re dead, and so is Wil, and neither of you have to face what you’ve done to these kids,” Schlatt opens his mouth, as if he wants to say something, but Connor cuts him off, “ both of you are <em> selfish </em>, not only for what you did to Tommy and Tubbo, but to Alex too.” </p><p>He’s crying. He wipes his eyes with the back of his thumb, breath hitching as he retrieves his sword from his inventory. Schlatt doesn’t say a word, “ so,” he manages, despite the way his chest rises and falls irregularly as he tries to regain his composure, “ fuck off, before I find I way make you <em> stay </em> dead.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>This stray Italian greyhound</strong>
</p><p><br/>
<strong>These inconvenient fireworks</strong><br/>
<strong>This ice-cream-covered screaming hyperactive thought</strong>
</p><p><br/>
<strong>God, I just want to lay down</strong><br/>
<strong>These colors make my eyes hurt</strong><br/>
<strong>This feeling calls for everything that I am not</strong>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Schlatt goes, and Connor doesn’t know how to feel about it for a number of reasons. For one, he doesn’t say anything; he stares at Connor, and the line of his mouth is flat, and then he’s suddenly gone. He, quite literally, vanishes into thin air, leaving Connor with deflated balloons, triangle paper hats and all of these decorations that were never going to be temporary, but make Connor feel very, very tired just from looking at it.</p><p> </p><p>He feels like it should be raining. He wouldn’t be able to say why, if anyone asked, but he wishes it was raining.</p><p> </p><p>“ Connor?”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
“ Tubbo,” he says, even with his back turned, because Tommy doesn’t call people by their names, uses expletives as terms of endearment and doesn’t <em> speak </em> as much as he screams,  “ hi.”</p><p> </p><p>“ Are you alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“ No,” he replies truthfully, forcing himself to face the boy hovering just before the door, peering in with a worry that Connor wants to refuse but also <em> wants </em>,  “ fuck no.”</p><p> </p><p>“ You wanna go somewhere and talk about it?”</p><p> </p><p>Connor looks at him. <em> Really </em> looks, because it’s easier when people are closer to do this.</p><p> </p><p>(Connor isn’t one to keep secrets. He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve per say, but he doesn’t have a reason to lie. He’s fairly certain nobody else knows, except maybe the man with the long cape who owns the castle at one end of the path that winds through the spawn, the new guy, who’s all laughs but is life in a way that Charlie is not, that is closer to Wilbur, at best. He wouldn’t lie about it, if someone asked, but nobody’s asked him about it yet, so it’s not really a lie.)</p><p> </p><p>Tubbo is Schlatt’s son. Connor can’t imagine growing up with that man, but the resemblance is clear in the horns that have started to curl around his ears, the dry humor that rips laughter that you just can’t stop out of the closets of friends. Tubbo is Schlatt’s son in so many ways but he is also not, because he is kind, and he gives more than he takes.</p><p> </p><p>“ Sure,” he says, because he really needs this right now, even if it’s selfish of him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>This sudden burst of sunlight</strong><br/>
<strong>And me with my umbrella</strong><br/>
<strong>Cross-indexing every weatherman's report</strong>
</p><p><br/>
<strong>I was ready for the down slide</strong><br/>
<strong>But not for spring to well up</strong><br/>
<strong>This feeling calls for everything I can't afford</strong>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“ What was he like?” Connor asks, quietly, “ here.”</p><p> </p><p>Tubbo looks up from where he was fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves, “ Do you want me to be honest?”</p><p> </p><p>“ Please,” He says, too close to a plea then he’d like, but Tubbo doesn’t seem to mind.</p><p> </p><p>“ He was everything you’ve heard and more,” he was like Wilbur, now that I think about it,” it’s such a <em> weighted </em> comment, and Tubbo’s smiling despite it, contemplatively in the strange way only he can, wise to an extent that worries Connor, “ never did much work other than when everyone was looking at him. Crazy,” He says, pointedly, and Connor is surprised by the fact that he finds himself habitually going to defend his old friend, for a moment, “ but I think he could’ve been good. I think they both could’ve been good,” Tubbo’s eyes get a bit sadder, the way Tommy’s do whenever someone brings up the crater, “ I don’t know why it happened. Why they both went mad,” He meets Connor’s eyes with an expression he assumes is supposed to be reassuring, but is just quite sad, that a teenager is trying to reassure <em> him</em>, “ but, um, Ghostbur seems happier now. Even if it sucks for us, having to watch them,” He gestures to L’Manburg, the stone that juts out of the ground, the water that spills over the sides, “ y’know, they’re happier.”</p><p> </p><p>" I guess," Connor says without really believing it, and the way Tubbo looks at him, all wide eyes and too smart for his own good.</p><p> </p><p>" 's alright if you're mad at him, you know," and seriously, fuck these kids who know him better than he knows himself, " both of them. Funny doesn't like Ghostbur, and he's technically his dad," Connor doesn't know if it says more about him, Tubbo, or the nature of the server that he feels deeply disturbed by the nonchalance of Tubbo's tone, " I'm not very good with words, I'm sorry."</p><p> </p><p>" I think you're very good with them, actually," he says, because Tubbo is the president, which is equally as fucked-up, but there's got to be a reason he's in a position like that, " thanks, Tubbo."</p><p> </p><p>" No problem, Big Man," Tubbo starts moving to stand, before casting an apologetic look at Connor, " I'm sorry I missed your party, by the way."</p><p> </p><p>" It's fine," surprisingly enough, it's not untrue, at least not in the way the others usually use the term to brush away worry, " wasn't much of a party anyways."</p><p> </p><p>" Oh," Tubbo looks apologetic, and Connor wants to ask him so many things, who exactly taught him, or maybe the better word is made, to be this way, to apologize for hurt that was not felt out by him, " I'm sorry about that."</p><p> </p><p>" It's alright," Connor says, because it is, that he didn't come to the party at least.</p><p> </p><p>" I'm going to pretend I don't think otherwise," that gets a smile out of both of them, " I'll see you around, Connor."</p><p> </p><p>" Seeya."</p><p> </p><p>(He stays there for a while, at the edge of a country that he's not sure who owns anymore. There's a strange comfort in it, in the way he knows it's alive in the way that he is, between something mortal and cursed. When he does leave, he doesn't go home. He doesn't think he has one of this anymore)</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>Please not now</strong>
</p><p><br/>
<strong>Please not now</strong>
</p><p><br/>
<strong>Please not</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>leave a kudos / comment if it so please you :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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